Mycroft's Birthday Surprise
by Astra H. Lowelle
Summary: It's Mycroft's birthday, Nanny is watching TV, and little Sherlock is determined to make his brother something special.


"Let's see, let's see…" mumbled eight-year-old Sherlock Holmes, running his finger down a list of books. Neither of his parents were home, Mycroft was out with some friends, and his nanny was watching a show on the telly and entirely ignoring him.

 _Again._

"Right then," Sherlock muttered, consulting the spines. "Hmmm. 'Easy French Cooking'…. No, that's won't do. Eh… 'The Art of Cooking Without Burning Your House Down…' no, no, I'm sure I don't need a book to tell me how to do that. I can burn down a house a hundred ways without instruction. Nanny's wig comes to mind... How about… 'One Hundred and One Ways to Boil Water'… no. No, I really don't think I need to boil water for this."

Sherlock slammed the book shut. "How on _Earth_ am I supposed to bake a birthday cake for Mycroft if I _can't find a recip_ e _?_ "

Suddenly, a crafty gleam entered his eye.

"If you want something done right, do it yourself," he muttered, replacing the cookbook on the shelf. "I'll invent my own recipe for birthday cake. Now, let's see, what does Mycroft like?"

Sherlock scooted over to the pantry. "I know he likes mashed potato…" he tossed the sack of potatoes onto the counter and headed for the refrigerator. "He's partial to lamb chops and cold buttered peas…" these items joined the potatoes. "Tea's good, yes, tea and scones and clotted cream, that'll sweeten the cake, and perhaps a bit of those spices he loves- what was it? Ah, yes, cinnamon and basil and garlic. Yes. This'll do nicely. And some milk to make it smooth, and oil so it'll go down easily."

And with that, Sherlock rolled up his sleeves and grabbed a bowl from a cabinet.

"Mycroft will be _so_ surprised!"

:-:

To say that Mycroft was surprised was an understatement of laughable proportions.

" _What is that appalling and unutterable stench?"_ he demanded the moment he stepped through the door. A very sooty Sherlock came out proudly to greet him, stains of varying colors and interesting shapes all over his once spotless white shirt. Nanny looked up bemusedly at the two, then returned to the telly program.

"Come into the kitchen!" Sherlock urged, beaming proudly and grabbing Mycroft's hand with his own. "I made you a surprise!"

"I beg of you not to soil me," Mycroft groaned, delicately removing his hand from his little brother's and following him into the kitchen. "I'm sure you can show me exactly what this 'surprise' is without-"

"Ta- _da!_ " Sherlock interrupted happily, pointing to the kitchen table.

There, sitting proudly upon their mother's best china platter, was a sight that that completely defied description. Perhaps it would be best explained if one were to imagine the results of an eight-year-old boy forcibly mashing together cold buttered peas with scones and clotted cream, garnished liberally with shredded tea leaves, then stirred into a bowl containing a large glob of mashed potato drowned in a rather unsettling mixture of garlic and oil and milk and cinnamon, then slopped the entire mass over a large uncooked lamp chop suffocated in basil and baked the whole mess at 320 degrees for an two and a half hours.

Mycroft, for some reason or another, was not entirely enchanted with his brother's efforts.

" _SHERLOCK HOLMES, THAT IS THE MOST DISGUSTING, REVOLTING MESS I HAVE EVER HAD THE MISFORTUNE TO SEE! WHAT DID YOU_ _ **DO**_ _?"_

"It was supposed to be your b-birthday cake," explained Sherlock, his lower lip beginning to tremble despite his best efforts to keep it steady. "I couldn't find a recipe, so I invented my own. I looked for all your favorite things and p-put them together and- and-"

He broke off, looking down at his shoes. Mycroft stared in complete bewilderment, then laughed and shook his head. "Sherlock, I wouldn't expect anything less. Now, how about you leave the chemistry experiments to me from now on?"

:-:

"No," Sherlock murmured to himself much later that night, staring up at the darkened ceiling of his bedroom. "I don't think I'll leave the chemistry experiments to anyone. If you want something done right, do it yourself. All I need is a bit of practice..."


End file.
